


The Darcys of Pemberley: Sophia

by stellamoonewrites



Series: The Darcys of Pemberley [4]
Category: Historical Fiction, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Angst, Darcy - Freeform, Fluff, Multi, Pemberley, Restoration, historical smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-03 22:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14006253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamoonewrites/pseuds/stellamoonewrites
Summary: Lady Sophia Darcy has been brought up at the court of Charles II as best friend to his niece, Anne. She learns that the best way to get what you want is to go after it, whatever the cost. A story of rank, title and revenge - set within the Pride and Prejudice universe and based at the country seat of Pemberley in Derbyshire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All still very much a work in progress, apologies for any typos. Any feedback very gratefully received.

Lady Sophia Augusta Louisa Darcy was the youngest daughter of George, Duke of Derbyshire. Whilst most titled men with a considerable property longed for a brace of healthy sons to inherit, George longed for a girl. After a short wait, six years and three sons to be precise, the Darcys were blessed with a delicate, dark haired bundle and they declared their family complete until their unexpected miracle, Sophia, appeared five years later. As the only one of their children to be born in England, she was rewarded by being sent away at the age of eight to be the companion of the second daughter of the Duke of York at the special request of Queen Catherine of Braganza, who favoured the pretty girl with the curls whose laugh sounded like sunshine.

  
As fourth in line to the throne, Anne Stuart was styled as a Princess, but she was as far away as from a Princess as could be believed. She has been born in St James’ Palace in the same year as Sophia and they were but three weeks different in age. Princess Anne’s mother had died when the child was six and her older sister, Mary, was nine. Their brothers, Charles, James and Edgar barely outlived infancy, leaving the two girls as their father’s only progeny. Many expected the handsome young Duke, widowed at thirty-eight, to remarry one of the many well-born ladies who paid visit in the few months after he buried his wife. But he did not. Instead he sought the solace of mistresses, the distraction of dancing, and the comfort of alcohol, before joining himself in matrimony to a fifteen-year-old Princess from Modena two years later.

  
The girls had been moved about between their grandmother in France and various, fearsome Aunts before returning to live in the palace at Richmond where their uncle, King Charles, had installed them in their own suite of apartments, where they resided with their own staff and a few dutiful courtiers. Mary, fully understanding the implications of her history and position, was more restrained amongst company and carried herself as if she already had the crown balanced upon her head.  Anne was a clever, playful girl whose wit and down to earth humour was at odds with that of her stern, older sister. The Princess and Sophia, of the same temperament and mischievous nature, would often sneak away from the nursery and into Mary’s chambers, moving her possessions to cause confusion. The two girls were inseparable and often found hiding in corridors, under tables and in each other’s beds, giggling and laughing away, something that would continue for the next few years, much to the exasperation of their governess.  

*

My dearest Anne,

I hope that this letter reaches you quickly and soon. The hills of Derbyshire are so lonesome and I find that the windows of Pemberley rattle louder and with more fervour than those at Richmond. Oh, how I miss my chambers there and the help of Nellie. My maid here does not curl my hair how I wish and laces my corsets much harder than I would like. But most of all, I miss you my dearest sister and cannot wait until the end of the season when I am able to return to you once more.

S

*

Dear Sophia,

How I miss you so! The days are dragging, and I have found that I am rereading even the most boring works of my acquaintance so that I can make the hours shorter. I have not been successful in this endeavour. Hurry home (for this is your home, here with me) and we shall have fun soon.

A

PS: I have included some new sheet music for you to learn and practice. I will do the same and once you are back here with me we can sing together once more.

*

A,

I have been unable to contain myself at the thought of returning to Richmond and playing the piece of music – the composer is most masterful, and I love how the music rises and falls with such emotion! It is most unbecoming for a lady to sob, I know, but I could hardly contain the tears as I played this piece. What a world we live in where music can produce such an intense feeling! Father tells me that you uncle, the King, is gracing us with a visit for the start of the hunt. Mama is so happy, and worried, and buying all sorts of accoutrements that I am sure we will be bankrupt before the visit and you will be required to send ribbons and lace for your impoverished friend so that she will be fit to be seen again at court.

Sophia.


	2. Chapter 2

At the age of twenty-two, Cyril Darcy – the quiet, bookish and responsible heir to Pemberley – married famed society beauty Hortense Holland in a match that had been arranged by their parents. The benefit to both families was obvious – the Hollands’ grandchildren would be Darcys with all the deference that entailed, and the Darcys would benefit from Hortense’s substantial dowry. They were a very handsome couple; the buxom shapeliness of Lady Darcy beautifully juxtaposed against her husband’s well-built muscular physique, and whilst they both loved to dance, it was there that the geniality ended. Cyril found that he could not talk to his wife about literature, music or even basic cordialities regarding the running of their home, whilst Hortense was much more interested in partying and gambling with local ladies of their acquaintance and never arrived home earlier than midnight.

“Is Hortense at home?” Sophia enquired. She was home from Richmond for the hunt and breaking her fast with eggs and sausage.

Cyril looked up from the papers he was reading at the table and, taking a swig of his coffee, shrugged, “when is my wife ever at home?”

Sophia looked at her older brother, dressed and proper as always, ready for another day of taking charge and making everything right. Since their father was always at court, it fell upon Cyril to look after the day to day running of the estate – he did it remarkably well.

“I must admit to you, brother, that your wife being away from this house is not such an unfortunate event,” she commented archly.

Sophia looked at her brother to gauge his reaction. She suspected that Cyril was equally unhappy with his choice of bride as the rest of the household, but she was waiting for his confirmation.

“Sister, this is not talk for the breakfast room,” he stated, folding his papers and getting up from the table. “It will not do, Sophia. It will not do.” He stomped out of the room, each footstep echoing on the oak floorboards.

She wished that he could find some semblance of happiness in his marriage, even if that meant becoming a widower at a very early age. It was wrong to have such thoughts, but since her arrival at the house Hortense had managed to aggravate everyone in the house in Derbyshire, including her. Sophia thought herself to be easy to like – she knew when to laugh, what to laugh about, she knew enough about politics to impress any older men, enough about literature to start a conversation with most women, and she could converse easily in three languages – but Hortense was unpleasant to everyone.

Sophia took a bite of her sausage and slouched down in her chair. She was dining alone again this morning, the guests  were not due to arrive until that afternoon and a banquet was being prepared to welcome the visitors from court. Her mother had taken to her chambers, complaining of feeling unwell the previous evening and had not yet ventured downstairs, whilst her father was currently en-route from London. Hopefully this would be an eventful week, Sophia thought, because she was damned bored with country life already and she had only been here two days.

*

It was not quite a year later, when Sophia heard word that her sister in law had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. No-one knew what she had been doing roaming the hallways in the early hours of the morning; she had tipped over the low balustrade of the upper landing and landed at an awkward angle, her wig covering the bloody wound on the top of her head. Hortense had been found the following morning by a young maid who raised the alarm, but it was too late to save Lady Darcy, who had already been dead for several hours. Cyril remarried within six months to a girl called Louisa who came from a local manor and had no aspirations of grandeur. She was well loved by her servants and adored by a husband who knew full well that he had sacrificed his eternal soul to make her his bride.

*

Sophia was blushing. James Fitzroy was so dashing on his horse. So regal. So… she couldn’t describe what she felt when she looked at him, but it made her feel a bit funny. The Hunt at Pemberley was one of the most famous in the county and her father took pride in the fact that he had rebuilt the estate after the war from ruins to a court playground. Most of the house was now rebuilt - a wondrous cavern of small rooms, large rooms, nooks, crannies and hiding places as well as the magnificent fireplace in the Long Gallery, which was still emblazoned with the coat of arms of the House of Tudor and miraculously survived the parliamentarian raiders.

Even though Court and monarchs were an ever-present feature in her life and she, technically, lived in a Palace for most of the time, Sophia was still a little bit overwhelmed to think of King Henry VIII staying at her house. He had ridden out with this same Hunt over 150 years earlier and to think that she was such a small part of a much bigger history overawed her much more than it probably should. There was painting of the famous Tudor in the gallery at Richmond, as she would spend time looking at it, wondering if the man himself had been as foreboding as his reputation. That was the problem with men, and husbands – they had all the power and the wives merely had to do their bidding. Sophia knew that George was trying to find her a suitable match at court, but the line of suitors was shallow and and she was not ready to give up what little freedom she currently had to shackle herself to a dullard from Dulwich, who was only interested in her fortune and not what she had to say.

That James Fitzroy, though. He had ridden off at speed – the throb of the gallop echoing underfoot – and Sophia had watched him disappear into the distance. James Fitzroy was going to be trouble, she thought. Trouble indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

“Daughter, wait!” The Duchess’ voice was firm. Sophia sat back down next to her mother’s dressing table and saw a hint of fire behind those green eyes. Mary placed her hand on her daughters own, her fingers heavy with jewels. “You must be careful,” she warned. Sophia sighed, she wasn’t really in the mood for a lecture. “You of all people must know that this flirtation with James Fitzroy cannot go anywhere.”

The younger lady looked her mother in the eye directly, “Mama, I do not expect anything from Lord Fitzroy.”

“Firstly, he is not a Lord. He is the bastard son of the King and a whore, and you would do well to avoid him.” Mary was furious with her youngest daughter who had taken it upon herself to walk, unchaperoned, to the hunting lodge with Fitzroy, who had good manners and a terrible reputation. “You were seen today, acting most inappropriately, and if word reaches court then you may never find a good match.”

Sophia visibly blushed, she had not realised that she had been seen walking with James in the park, holding his hand, kissing his mouth, feeling the weight of him against her as she cried out no, whilst her whole body was saying yes. Sophia’s eyes flashed black and she flew into a rage at the unjustness of it all, words shooting out of her mouth like arrows.

“Do not think for one minute that you have a right to make judgments on my behaviour, Mama, when your life with Papa has been so far removed from the fairy-tale you always told us.” Sophia got up from the chair and walked across the room to the far side. “I do not need a husband. I do not understand this obsession with marriage, it vexes me greatly.”

Mary stood up and moved quickly towards her daughter, grabbing her by the arm and forcing her to face her directly. “You are Lady Sophia Darcy and your position; your very name carries a responsibility.” She was spitting the words out. “You do not have the freedom to do what you please, despite what you believe. It would do you well, child, to remember your place and your responsibilities before you give up your virtue to the first boy who demands it.” Mary looked directly into Sophia’s angry grey eyes. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Her daughter was breathing heavily, shocked by the display of anger exhibited by her mother. She nodded quickly, silently.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she uttered.  

“Then you may leave,” she stated firmly.

Mary despaired of her daughter, who at nearly seventeen years old had the intelligence and learning of someone twice her age; but she was also foolish and idealistic, her years of tutelage in the Royal Court giving her a deep-seated belief in her own ideals, regardless of convention or propriety. She hoped that being so thoroughly reprimanded would force her daughter to see the error of her ways.

*

The touch of James Fitzroy’s hand under her skirts had made Sophia feel more alive than she had ever done, and she was furious that her mother – a woman who allowed her husband to keep a mistress in town, whilst she hid away in the country – could even dare to reprimand her. She surrendered herself to him that summer afternoon; feeling him move inside her for the first time, as she grasped for something to hold onto, afraid that she was about to fall off the earth.

*

Your Highness,

I have not heard from you in three months and my mother fears that I may have offended you in some manner. If I have, I am most outrageously apologetic and resolve to renege on any offence that I may have caused you.

Yours, etc.

*


	4. Chapter 4

Anne, as fourth in line to the throne, was required to marry and found a suitable partner in Prince George, who was thirty years of age and had been chosen by her Uncles and his own as a suitable match. Anne had laughed uncomfortably on her first meeting with her betrothed, but despite this, they found themselves quite happy with each other, finding that that shared a great deal in common and similar outlook on life and their duty. It was unexpected for Anne, who had believed that she would be shackled to a miserable, power-hungry prince, like William, the angry Dutchman who her sister had been married to at the age of fifteen.

Mary had cried throughout the whole of their ceremony, heartbroken at the loss of her true love, Frances Apsley. Of course, a woman could not love another woman out in the open, and the marriage was hastily arranged to prevent any further discord in the Royal household. A year after the wedding, Anne had travelled to Holland to visit her sister and found her heartbroken at her situation.  This visit, where her brother in law had been rude and demanding and her sister sad and withdrawn, meant that Anne had dreaded her betrothed being anything like William, but in George she found a quiet, self-effacing man who believed in supporting her and being a true partner. They were married in July 1683 and Sophia watched as her friend, dressed in a lavish embroidered blue gown, said her vows in the subdued splendour of St James’ Palace.  

Sophia was too clever to simply marry for love, knowing that in her position the best she could hope for was a husband that was mostly faithful and did not expect her to raise his bastards, so she took her father’s dowry of £15000 and found the least offensive husband she could; William Clarendon was rich, handsome and dead within the year from smallpox – whilst his estates passed to his younger brother, her dowry reverted back to her and she took her money and her grief and returned to town.

Lady Darcy-Clarendon’s return to court was much heralded by James Stuart. He was now King but would always be simply Anne’s father. The generous man, who laughed a lot and taught her how to play cards one winter when they were all snowed in at Richmond. She also appreciated his rugged handsomeness and forthright manner. She knew that he was a decided womaniser and, as well as James Fitzroy, had a whole stable of illegitimate children wandering about the country with a decidedly misplaced sense of power.

Fitzroy had proved to Sophia that men of certain rank and privilege believed that they were due more than their allocation. He was handsome, of course, but he also suffered from an unswerving arrogance of entitlement that meant whilst he was adequate for a friendly flirtation and the occasional visit after hours, he would never be a partner for her in the sense that she longed for. When he pressed a proposal upon her, no doubt encouraged by her fortune and legitimacy, she refused. Sophia was holding out for someone better, someone who she liked, and someone whom she would never be impressed upon to marry.

James noticed how Lady Darcy-Clarendon laughed with the gentlemen of the card table, how she flirted equally with the ladies – flattering and charming everyone sitting there. She was a formidable woman, he thought, the curve of her bosom and the sparkle in her eye caused a burn of lust in him that he had not felt in a while and he was determined that he would have her. Sophia could see the King eyeing her from across the room, but she was determined to ignore it, determined to pretend that she couldn’t see the way he looked at her with desire in his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

The days at Pemberley were long in the summer of Sophia’s nineteeth year – not because of the glorious sunshine or the quite unacceptable afternoons spent walking in the hills. The days were long because her mother was ill, and Sophia had promised to spend each day with her until she was well enough to ride up to the Cage and make fun of Cyril’s terrible shooting aim, but both Mary and her youngest daughter knew that she wouldn’t ride anywhere ever again. The sickness inside her was as enveloping as the ocean and Mary felt as if she were drowning in the watery depths, unable to summon the energy to rise again to the surface. It was the uselessness that she felt that made it doubly hard for her, and the burden. Mary knew that God had blessed her with the greatest of gifts, and that if this was the price she had to pay for the fortunate life she had led, then she was happy to settle her debt.

Sophia didn’t notice the difference in her Mama at first, but once it began it was an onslaught, as if she was being constantly battered by unknown forces and unable to retaliate, beaten into submission. George had ensured that his wife had the best care, of course, but he expended so much of his time at court now that he relied upon his daughter to attend to her. Sophia knew why her father was away; yes, he would say that he did not want to see his wife wasting away into nothing, that it was too hard for him to see her, that he was unable to provide the care she needed, but the truth was that George was in town with his mistress, Lady Scargill, and he would rather utilise his hours in the company of a two-bit actress cast off of the King’s, than sit by the bedside of his wife.

They were reading sermons on a glorious August afternoon, Sophia had thrown the windows open to let a soft breeze glide in from off the lake and the library smelled of peonies and sunshine. She rang the bell and asked for two of the houseboys to come upstairs and position her mother’s chaise in the corner of the room – the reading nook was Mary’s favourite place and one that she had specifically asked for when this room was rebuilt. Everything about this room was by her design, from the dark wood and the green walls, to the stained-glass window panels in the bookcase doors. Even the book they were reading was one that Mary had translated from German back when she had lived in Hamburg. Sophia had noticed that her mother’s eyes had closed gently and she moved towards her to check that she was sleeping.

“Do not worry, my child, I have not passed over yet” Mary opened one eye and smiled at her daughter. They were so similar in looks and in temperament, apart from those incandescent rages that were all Darcy.

“Mama, I thought…”

“I know what you thought, my dearest, and I fear that it may not be long now. Every hour I feel consumed, but every hour that you are here gives me great strength.” Mary reached for her hand and gestured for her to sit on the bed. She looked every inch the grand Duchess, with her brown hair fashioned up, the silvery strands around her temples pinned in curls.

“I only want to be by your side… Please let me send a man to get Cyril, he has gone to Lambton, but only for a moment, I need to get him…”

“Sophia, wait” Her mother’s voice was firm. She sat back down and saw a hint of fire behind those green eyes. “Sophia Darcy, you are capable of the greatest things. I know this, I saw it in you from first breath you took.” Mary took hold of her hand and held it close to her heart. “But you have to be careful, my love, you have to realise the constraints of your rank – for whilst we are lucky, as women we are also trapped.”

“Mama, you do not need to talk of this now… Here, let me read to...”

“Dear heart, no. You need to hear this.” She looked into the grey eyes of her daughter, the same eyes as her husband. “You need to hear this from your mother.”

“Truly, Mama. I will listen.”

“When I married your Father, I did so to save myself. Marriage was not about love – it was about an alliance, especially during those times. The war was difficult, Sophia, arduous and I saw so….so many things that a young girl should not see…and I was alone. My mother, a lady whom you have never known, went with the queen to France. My brothers, Charles and Edward, were already dead and my father, the bravest of men, had joined them in the kingdom of heaven. I only had a few gold coins as a dowry, and my good name. Your father was a dashing general, we met at my family home in Morevale – it’s gone now, just a ruin where a house once was – and I was tending to soldiers, wrapping their wounds, instructing servant girls… He should have chosen a lady or a countess, but he chose a country squire’s daughter and I know that if either of us could choose again, we would make the same decision. He was, he _is_ the love of my life and I don’t regret any moment of it.”

 “Mama, you have told me this tale before – how handsome Papa was and how he quite literally swept you off your feet.”

Mary glanced towards the lake, the breeze was gentle against their faces and she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. If there was one piece of advice that she needed to tell her daughter, it was to marry someone who was a friend first and a lover second. That lust burns away, but the love that remains is stronger than any bodily pleasure.

“We rescued each other, Sophia. Your father was a philanderer and a drunk, and despite all of his glory and his accolades, he was alone too. I don’t want to tell you that the fairytale I have told you your whole life is a lie...”

“ I am not as foolish a girl as you would think I am. I gave up childish things – stories of knights and princesses – if I ever need to be rescued I will make damn sure that I will do it myself” Sophia got up from the chair and walked across the room to the far side. “I do not need another husband. ”

Her eyes flashed black as if she would fly into a tirade of abuse against the marital state, but she saw her mother – resplendent and tiny against the yellow chaise, and she softened. Mary began to speak in a hushed, tone – her voice struggling against the snatches of air she was desperately trying to breathe.

“My love, I know that you, of all of the great women of England I know, would do perfectly well and splendidly without a husband. But you are not a man or a low-born maid, you do not have the freedom to do as you please. You must protect yourself, your name, this family and find someone who you can grow old with, someone with whom you have a connection.”

“I wish I had been born a man to make all this easier… I could be your errant son, rally a crew and sail to the Americas. Instead I get to yet again pick the least dullest man out of a whole host of dull men and raise a family of dull, little men… and maybe an argumentative daughter, for my sins.” Sophia kissed her mother’s hand and held it in her own, the sun began to wane, and the two women sat there in silence as the day drifted away.

It was dark now; the torches had been lit in the grounds and the harvest moon reflected off the deep waters of the lake. Cyril dropped his fishing gear at the door and ran through the hall to the library, his sister was sitting there holding their mother’s hand – her eyes red with tears.  He gently walked over and took his place next to his sister. She leaned into his shoulder and turned her face into his chest.

“I cannot bear this, brother, how will we ever get over this loss”

“There is still hope, sister. Always hope.” He poured himself a glass of ale and sipped slowly. His thoughts thrown back to the day when his wife had been found dead at the bottom of the stairs, not even a year had passed, and he could swear that he heard her voice calling out to him, begging him for help.

The Darcy children held close to each other until the moon was high in the sky and the torches were embers. Sophia rested her head on her brother as they sat with their mother, reading stories and fairytales and sonnets until the morning sun appeared over the horizon. The door opened slowly, George Darcy walked into the room, he looked like a repentant man, standing before God on the day of judgement. He removed his wig, something he very rarely did, and he knelt next to his wife’s bed, took her hand softly and gently kissed it. Mary’s eyes fluttered and opened, sparkling with recognition.

“My dearest love,” she whispered. “I have waited for you.”

George’s voice faltered, “how could l let you go without kissing you goodbye?” He kissed his wife gently on the lips and then on the forehead, lingering, smelling her scent, the comforting warmth of her. “Mary, you have been my greatest love. My heart has been and ever will be yours.”

Mary slowly placed her hand on his face, looking into those tearful grey eyes that had brought her comfort and pain in equal measure. “Thank you for the greatest of adventures,” she murmured and closed her eyes. Mary Darcy was dead. The light in Sophia's heart went out, but the bastard child of the King was starting to stir in her belly. 


End file.
